


so what's it gonna take?

by Trojie



Series: Inception Bingo 2016 [4]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur normally tops the fuck out of Eames but secretly wants smoochy lovemaking, Coming In Pants, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Light Angst, M/M, Wall Sex, sex under the influence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has his inhibitions ... loosened somewhat ... by an adverse reaction to somnacin. </p><p>Eames shouldn't. He really shouldn't. But he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so what's it gonna take?

**Author's Note:**

> For Inception Bingo, prompt "sex under the influence". 
> 
> Alpha-read, cheerleaded upon and beta-read by immoral_crow, to whom I owe many sparkly rocks and my undying love. 
> 
> Title from 'Fairweather Friends' by Queens of the Stone Age.

'I'm not sure about that octopus -' Arthur says, unhooking himself from his PASIV line, standing up, and in one, fluid, graceful movement, falling flat on his face. 

Eames blinks, and then holds out a hand for him. Arthur waves it away, eeling himself up to about three quarters of standing on sheer core strength alone, apparently, then pausing to blink at his own knees.

Irina says, 'Octopus? What octopus?'

'Why's the ground moving?' Arthur asks. Eames grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him up. 'What the hell -'

He's _leaning_ on Eames. In public. He does rally, thank God, and take his own weight, but he doesn't move away.

'I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that Arthur's not reacting well to whatever it is Cosima put into that somnacin to speed up brain function,' says Eames, whose traitorous hand has found its way onto Arthur's waist. Two hours ago, Arthur would have broken his fingers if Eames had put them on him uninvited. Now he's cocking his hip into the touch. Eames tries to pry himself loose, out of self-preservation from the wrath of future Arthur. 

'I'm allergic to kiwifruit,' says Arthur, apropos of nothing. He moves with Eames, keeping them plastered together. Eames is doing his best to keep them in a collegial posture but Arthur's inability to stand up straight is derailing his intentions. It's like trying to prop up an overly friendly python.

'Go and get some sleep,' says Irina, coiling up the PASIV's lines. 'Not much we can do til it wears off and I've contacted a supplier about a different batch of somnacin.' She sighs. 'I think I know a guy. It might take me a day or so to physically get my hands on some, though.'

'We'll be behind schedule by that point,' says Arthur, and it's slow and syrupy, but that's such an unmistakably Arthur thing to say. 'We're already cutting it fine. Singer won't be pleased.'

'Nothing we can do about it now, is there?'

'Irina -'

'You're in no fit state to dream,' she says, and shuts the PASIV with a decisive click. 'Eames, you hired a car, right? Take him home, if he won't go under his own steam.'

'Fuck you,' says Arthur, but without his usual sharpness. 'And the horse you rode in on. And its face.'

'We'll see you tomorrow,' says Eames tactfully, and starts to pull. Arthur comes with him unnaturally pliantly. 'I'm sure this will wear off with no trouble,' he adds, completely without foundation or evidence.

'Hmmm,' is Irina's reply, as he steers Arthur out. 

***

By the time he actually manages to navigate them both to the level of the parking garage around the corner that he'd left his rental in, Arthur has progressed from leaning on Eames to groping his arse in full view of man and God and the scandalised-looking parking attendant. 

Eames unlocks the car and shoves Arthur into the passenger's seat with some relief, and takes a second to adjust his clothing. 

'Right,' he says as he gets into the driver's seat. 'We'll have less of that, thank you very much.'

'But you like it,' Arthur drawls, sliding his hand up Eames's thigh. 

'I like it when you're not off your tits on chemistry,' Eames allows. He pulls Arthur's hand off and dumps it back in his lap. 'Stop it. You can go to bed and go to sleep and if you still fancy some action when you wake up, give me a ring.'

'But _I_ like it,' Arthur tries instead. He doesn't bother with the thigh thing this time, which is a shame in some ways because he really does have very long fingers and the way they feel ruffling their way up an inseam is unspeakably erotic. In other ways it's a good thing, because Arthur is not in his right mind right now and clearly it would be unseemly for Eames to go around encouraging him to be unspeakably erotic. 

'You're really making it quite difficult to drive,' Eames says as evenly as he can when he has Arthur's hand expertly undoing his belt buckle. He's managed to get them out of the parking garage and onto the public road without having a head-on collision with a concrete pole, which is probably a miracle. 'I'm sure this qualifies as a hazard.'

'Fuck off, you can drive while getting blown,' Arthur says, leaning down. 'I just wanna - fuck it, Eames, don't crash, okay? I just, I really need to -' and then he's got his mouth around Eames's cock and it's wet and deep straight from the get-go. He shoves his arm down over Eames's lap and suddenly wildly-jerking hips, and it feels like he's got Eames halfway down his throat already. 

Arthur is never like this, is the thing. He's controlled, always; he'll deep-throat but only after he's got Eames pulling his hair, he's _never_ sloppy. He's never like this, with a mouth so wet he's making Eames's shirt-tails damp.

He never touches himself while he's blowing Eames, either. He never does this like he's desperate for it. He's always been very clear - he has sex with Eames because he likes watching _Eames_ go mad for _him_. 

Eames very carefully and sensibly hits the indicator to change lanes, turns left towards Arthur's hotel, waits at a pelican crossing for a gaggle of small schoolchildren - keeps Arthur's head down with a gentle hand on the nape of his neck for a moment, 'til they've passed, no need to scar them for life - and all with absolutely no higher brain function because Arthur is dedicatedly sucking it all out through his cock. 

And making 'mmm' noises that, really, are probably more damaging to Eames's ability to drive than anything else, humming against his skin, like he's enjoying this so much he just can't help himself. His tongue is wicked, probably illegal, and he keeps half-swallowing. It's so tight, so smooth, and Arthur knows exactly how to drive Eames crazy, has for years, but this time he's doing it like it's getting him off too. Eames risks a look down and Arthur's eyes are closed, blissful. And his hand is in his pants. 

Eames is probably going to die in this rental car. He only hopes the resulting fireball is energetic enough to prevent his and Arthur's corpses - and their compromising poses - from being recognised. The threat of imminent immolation isn't enough to make him take his hand off Arthur's head, though. 

'I'm close,' he warns Arthur through gritted teeth. 'Darling, you might want to -'

But Arthur shakes his head, a tiny refusal, and makes more _mmm-mmm_ noises that indicate 'no' fairly clearly and, probably deliberately, make Eames come so hard his hands cramp around the steering wheel. 

And then Arthur swallows, and starts to lick Eames clean while his cock is still jerking and spilling droplets everywhere. Eames manages to park the car, shaking and shocked, and looks down at Arthur. 

Arthur looks up and licks his lips. 

'Take me upstairs,' he says hoarsely, and Eames scrambles to obey. That, at least, isn't new.

***

Normally, Arthur and Eames and hotel rooms have a pattern, and the pattern involves careful, chessmaster moves, and conversations about the job, less alcohol than they pretend but enough to be a pretext, and, eventually, Arthur putting Eames down over the mattress and deciding what to do with him. 

Eames likes the pattern. He has a forger's love of being perfect and a cat's love of being admired, and Arthur's way of stroking one fingertip down his spine, telling him he's beautiful in a disdainful voice, and then either fucking him until he's forced to use both hands to prevent concussion by bedstead, or riding him so hard he whites out, clicks open locks in his psyche no-one else has ever managed to find.

Arthur does everything ruthlessly. Eames is pleased to be a part of everything. 

But this time, Arthur's out of his clothes before Eames has even turned around from shutting the door. 

'Arthur, what -'

'Your mouth ought to be a crime,' Arthur says. 'God,' and he kisses Eames hotly, open for him from the get-go, all-consumingly. He bites at Eames's lower lip so softly it's barely even pressure, tugs at it, sliding his tongue in and disassembling all of Eames's arguments about how they can and should still stop this.

Eames's hands settle at Arthur's waist and stay there. Arthur's slide up Eames's body and cradle his head, holding him close. 'Mm,' Arthur murmurs, in between kisses that go deep fast and disappear faster, 'Just. Wanna do this. Want you to do this to me forever,' he says, a word at a time. 

'Whatever you want,' says Eames dizzily, and means it. If Arthur just wants to stand here and snog, Eames will kiss him until Ragnarok arrives. 

Arthur winds his hands back down Eames until he can grab his wrists. 'Want you to hold me,' he says, pulling away a micrometre, a hair's breadth. His eyes are so dilated, his voice is thick, and Eames's guilty conscience pings him again. He tries to retreat, but Arthur won't let him. 'Want you to hold me down,' he whispers, like it's a secret. 'Don't let me move, just - just kiss me, fuck. Eames.'

'Darling,' says Eames, and his voice cracks. They know so much about each other, dreamsharers in general and Arthur and Eames in particular, but there are boundaries, there are safes, there are places you don't go and questions you don't ask if you want to continue working with someone. Arthur, more than anyone, has ringfenced himself. Eames has pushed to be let in deeper, on occasion, and been rebuffed every time. 

But this is a _confession_.

'I can come like that,' Arthur says so quietly Eames has to struggle to hear him over the rushing pounding of his heart. 'Wish you'd just make me,' he says. 'Don't know why you always let me win.'

If Eames were a better man, he'd give Arthur the lecture about physical dominance not being 'winning'. If Eames were a better man, he'd back off. But if Eames were a better man, he would have offered to call a chemist himself and make Irina drive Arthur back. 

So instead Eames twists his hands until he can take Arthur by the wrists and push them high up above his head, pinned to the wall. Eames shoves a knee in between Arthur's thighs and grinds his entire body into him. Eames fits his mouth to Arthur's and shoves his tongue in, like this is fucking. 

Eames is a bad man. 

Arthur melts under him, goes lax and loose, and lets him in. Eames is rutting into Arthur hard, and Arthur just takes it and moans. Fucking Christ, but he's loud like this, wrenching his head to the side to pant, catch his breath, and Eames can't stop himself from kissing Arthur's ear, his jaw, the tendons in his neck, everything soft and exposed and vulnerable that he's not normally allowed anywhere near. He jams both of Arthur's wrists into one of his hands, stretching the span of it so tight that Arthur could easily get out of it if he tried, and uses the other to hitch Arthur's leg up over his hip, selfishly wanting more friction. 

Except Arthur growls, 'don't fucking drop me,' and does this little jump that ends with both his legs around Eames's waist and Eames's hand now cradling his arse. He nuzzles their mouths back together and rolls his body like a tidal wave. Eames's eyes cross. Between the slick, soft kisses and the steel press of Arthur's erection up against his, Eames is suddenly on the edge of coming. 

'Christ, Arthur,' he moans. 'You're going to kill me.'

'Maybe one day,' Arthur agrees breathily, tightening his grip. 'Fuck, _harder_ \- please, Eames, I want - just fuck me up, please, _please_ -'

They're thudding against the wall now so hard Eames suspects they're causing structural damage, just like Arthur's pleading is destroying him from the foundations. If he were any closer to Arthur he'd be inside him, but no, this is too good, too raw already, if there weren't even the flimsy barrier of their clothes between them Eames doesn't know if he could be responsible for his actions. He's barely responsible for them now. He tightens his grip on Arthur's wrists, hitches him even higher, bites at that soft, beautiful, stubborn mouth and sinks his teeth into Arthur's lower lip. He can taste Arthur's blood. 

'Oh, _God,_ God, I -' says Arthur. Between them, Eames feels the sudden pulsing throb of Arthur coming against his cock. Arthur's come in his trousers, sticky and wet in those ridiculously expensive underpants he buys, smearing up on the inside of his bespoke, perfect suit. 

Eames whimpers into Arthur's mouth and does the same, and the world goes to white noise, static and chaos.

'-ove you,' he thinks he hears underneath the roaring in his ears. 

He almost does drop Arthur, trying to detangle himself, both of them lax and stupid. Eames is a mess of sweated-through shirt and uncomfortable stickiness in his trousers, and Arthur can't be any better. Eames argues himself into pulling the clothes off him and shoving him into the shower.

'C'mere,' Arthur says, doe-eyed and warm when he twines his fingers around Eames's wrist. 'C'mon, Eames, wash my back.' 

Eames washes him, evades his kisses, shampoos his hair, towels him off, and bundles him naked and dry between the ridiculously high-thread-count sheets of his pristine hotel bed. It's the least he can do, having already done far too much. 

'You'd better not be planning on leaving,' says Arthur, sitting up and groping on the bedside table for something that turns out to be a remote control. 'Put down your pants and get over here.'

He's so relaxed, so un-Arthur. No. Eames isn't planning on leaving him like this, with his guard so clearly down. God knows what would happen. So he does put down his pants, and he sits on the uncomfortably stylish chair at the uncomfortably stylish desk, at least until Arthur rolls his eyes and gets up. 

'I want to watch a movie with you,' he says, and drags Eames to the bed. 

'Arthur,' Eames says after a while. Arthur is sprawled over his lap and Eames is tracing random patterns on his back with rough fingertips. It makes Arthur sigh happily into Eames's thigh. 'What are we doing?'

Arthur rolls over and looks up at him. He's sleepy-looking, and still more … undone … than he would normally be, but he doesn't look quite so stoned anymore, and there's the beginning of the Arthur-thinking wrinkle furrowing between his eyebrows. 'What we want to?'

He reaches up and pulls Eames down into an awkward, hunched-over kiss. 

It's everything Eames has ever refused to let himself want. But Eames is still afraid. 

***

'Did he make it back to his room on his own two legs or did you have to carry him?' Irina asks over coffee the next morning. 'I am sorry to have stuck you with taxi duty, Eames, but on the bright side, I got a replacement stock of somnacin on the overnight courier - hopefully it'll get here this afternoon.'

'He walked,' Eames allows. 'I had to prop him up, but he walked. It was no trouble, really.'

Eames woke up this morning with Arthur curled up six inches away from him on the mattress, blinking sleepily and looking warm and soft and utterly unapproachable. Just like every other morning-after they've ever had, with the loose, touchable Arthur of yesterday barricaded over again. Part of Eames breathed a sigh of relief when Arthur smiled at him, his normal Arthur smile, and got up. 

'Tea or coffee?' he'd asked, flicking the kettle on. Even naked, his hair coming loose from the remains of yesterday's gel, the way he moved was tight, controlled. Safe. 

So Eames said, 'Tea, please,' and watched from the bed as Arthur put a teabag in a cup, added the boiling water, measured coffee into the miniature French Press and filled that too, and then walked into the bathroom and closed the door. 

As soon as the shower hissed on, Eames had scrambled into his clothes and left. 

Irina has very politely not yet said anything about the fact that he's still wearing yesterday's suit. 

'Well, I appreciate you taking care of that,' she says, stirring sugar into her coffee, 'and I'm sure Arthur does too. I'm already sure he's going to take my apology in the form of an extra cut.'

'Favours,' Eames says, reaching for a biscuit. 'Arthur likes to play the spider in the centre of a web of obligations. You mark my words.'

Irina raises an eyebrow. 'You know him better than I do,' she says, with a tiny edge to it that has Eames forcing himself not to bristle. 'Ah, speak of the Devil,' she adds. 

'Please tell me there's some coffee left,' Arthur says, over Eames's shoulder. 'The shit they have at my hotel is like drinking mud.'

'You sound better,' says Eames. 'No ill effects?' Any other day, he would have made some comment, and Arthur would have snapped something back, and maybe seven times out of ten Arthur's expression would have telegraphed an invitation to be in his bed that night, but now Eames can't think of anything to say. He just wants to kiss Arthur again, now that he knows how it feels to do it like a lover would. 

'I'm fine, thanks,' says Arthur diffidently. He stretches for the coffee and Eames catches the wince. Strained muscles, probably, from being held up so long. 

Abruptly, Eames gets up. 'I should get some work done,' he says. 'Here, Arthur, you have a seat.'

'I don't -' Arthur starts, but Eames shoves the seat under his arse before he can finish the sentence. Eames then goes on to spend the rest of the day hiding behind as many dossiers as he can scrounge from everyone else's research, practicing mannerisms and doing his best to look as un-interrupt-able as possible. 

It's not running away if you don't leave. Eames just, suddenly, desperately needs this job to go well and be over.

***

'It's ten pm,' says Arthur, and he's dangling Eames's car keys from his fingers, in front of Eames's face.

'Yes, I am capable of telling the time,' Eames retorts, staring up at him. 'I thought pickpocketing the team was my endearing foible.'

'What's mine supposed to be?'

'Wearing Armani as if it were your skin, and alarming marksmanship.' Eames picks up his latest file - the mark's mistress - and resumes reading. After another minute, he looks back up. 'Are you still here?'

'Points for observation,' says Arthur. 'But so are you. Eames, you need to eat food and get at least a couple of hours sleep. We are actually doing this extraction tomorrow, finally, remember?'

'I'll get some sleep when I'm done. Bugger off and let me finish reading this.'

'Eames, I want you to take me home, please.' It's polite, but it's an order. And in the darkened office, with only Eames's desk lamp still lit, and no-one but them there, and Arthur so close … Eames can't tell if it's a point-man order or an Arthur order. 

'Of course,' he says evenly. 'I'd be happy to give you a lift.'

Arthur's mouth twitches, but he says nothing as Eames takes the keys from his fingers and doesn't let even the tiniest part of their skin touch.

It's possibly the longest car journey Eames has ever taken, and he once hitchhiked across Australia. When they pull up at the kerb next to Arthur's hotel, Eames isn't even going to turn the engine off, he's just going to let Arthur leave and then drive away, but Arthur puts a hand on his where it's trembling on the gear lever, only half from the idle of the engine. 

'I want you to come up to my room,' says Arthur. 'I think we need to talk.'

He's too calm. Too collected. Eames is about to get shot, possibly fatally, and the stupid, ridiculous, appalling thing is, he'd let Arthur do it, too. He's probably owed a free shot. Eames doesn't know how he'd react, if their situations had been reversed, if his vulnerable underbelly had been exposed. He saw too much, he knows that. He saw more than Arthur would have liked him to.

He follows Arthur up the stairs nevertheless, on high alert. He'll let Arthur take a pot at him, if that's what he wants, but fair's fair, he reserves the right to duck. It probably won't happen in the stairwell, though. 

Probably. 

Arthur swipes his keycard and lets them into the room. That cup of tea is still on the side, the little paper tag and string now soaked and shrivelled up, stuck to the outside of the porcelain. 

Arthur loosens his tie. Eames subtly widens his stance. Arthur sighs. 'I'm not going to hit you, Eames.'

'No,' Eames agrees. 'I wasn't expecting you would, darling.' The endearment is on autopilot, Eames can't bite it off fast enough, and he hates his traitor tongue for letting it out. 

Arthur's mouth twitches into a half a smile, for half a second. 'I'm not going to shoot you, either.'

'Look, after this job's complete, I'm gone,' Eames says. He holds his hands up. 'I promise. And I can keep my mouth shut, too, you know that.'

Arthur is unbuttoning his waistcoat. Eames's mouth goes dry. Arthur's Glock in its shoulder holster gets carefully laid on the side table before he pulls the waistcoat off, pulls the shirttails out of his trousers, undoes his cufflinks one by one, click click onto the side table as well. 

'I'm sorry, Arthur,' Eames says, hoarsely. 'I'm so sorry.'

'Quiet,' says Arthur, turning around and walking towards him. 'I asked you for something yesterday and you gave it to me. If I ask you for something now, are you going to shut up and give it to me?'

Two days ago, two months ago, two years ago, Eames would have hedged, and Arthur would have demanded, and Eames would have teased, and Arthur would have _taken_ \- now, Eames swallows hard and says, 'Anything.'

Arthur puts his arms around Eames's shoulders and puts his mouth up to Eames's ear. 'I want you to take me to bed and fuck me.'

The noise Eames makes is, fortunately for his masculinity, swallowed by Arthur kissing him. It's the softest, slowest kiss imaginable, but unlike yesterday's sloppiness this is purposeful, efficient - the slightest press of Arthur's tongue to Eames's bottom lip making him open up, the edge of Arthur's teeth making Eames's knees turn to water. 

When Arthur finally lets him go, Eames is breathing hard. _'Anything,'_ he repeats, and he means it. 

Arthur smiles at him, a _real_ Arthur smile, all dimples and calculation, and falls back onto the mattress. 'Well come on, then. You know how I want it,' he says, and pulls.


End file.
